


The Coldest Light

by theimaginesyouneveraskedfor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 19:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13841697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor/pseuds/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor
Summary: The reader witnesses the death of the love her life, Thorin Oakenshield. Unwilling to let go, she shrouds his body and drags him across Middle Earth seeking out the mythical land of the necromancer. There she finds the magicker heard of only in the nighttime tales of children and begs for her beloved to be restored to life, but what price will she pay for what she wants most.





	The Coldest Light

A row of stone plinths stood central to the great hall of Erebor. The central most displayed the body of a king once galvanized by an endless surge of obstinance. Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, had drawn and released every breath without wavering, his stubborn nature had led him thus to his death.

Moonlight streamed in somberly through the open face of the mountain. The stone colossus stood as lifeless as the king upon his funeral shrine. Hours earlier, those who had survived the battle had stood in mourning, looking down upon the fallen Durins. Their demise assured that of the home they had fought so fervently to reclaim.

With nothing left to say nor tears left to cry, the hall had emptied but for one. Donia had not moved from beside the king’s corpse, nor had her eyes strayed from his achromatic features. His skin was drawn taut in his repose, his blue eyes drained of colour beneath their lids, and his lips stiffened in an eternal frown.

Though his hand was icy, Donia held onto the king as if he clung to her in turn. Her breath was all that rose within her, the maelstrom of grief and anger held within beneath a shell of paralysis. She was still trying to believe that he was truly gone. There was so much left to do. So much left unsaid. All that would be buried with Thorin.

She did not flinch when she heard another approach, she remained as she had been for near a day. The wizard loomed over her as he neared the other side of the plinth, tugging at his long grey beard though Donia did not look to see him. She felt his gaze float over the king before landing upon her and she was suddenly riled, irritated by the unwanted visitor.

“My dear,” Gandalf spoke softly, “You must rest.”

 _Why? So that she may wake knowing the king was dead?_  Donia remained silent, gripping Thorin’s hand tighter.

“He will be buried at dawn,” The wizard stated evenly, “I’m afraid you will not be able to go with him to those stony halls beyond.”

Donia closed her eyes, trying to will the magicker away. _If he was so powerful a wizard, why could he not return to her the only man she had ever loved?_ She had been a fool not to have told him before his ears had ceased to hear. How she wished she could go back. That  _she_ could bring him back.

“Please, you must say your farewells so that he may go peacefully,” Gandalf was nearly whispering as if afraid to disturb the dead, “Would you have him join his ancestors so discordantly?”

“Leave me,” Donia throat was dry from disuse and her words cracked sharply, “Now.”

“Donia…” Gandalf tried to plead but as the dam opened her eyes, he saw she could not be reasoned with. She would be just as well lying upon her own pyre.

“I want you to go,” She commanded.

She stared at the wizard with her stony eyes until he could bare it no longer. Gandalf gave one last wistful glance at the fallen Durin before he willed himself away. He left with heavy steps, dragging his feet through the dark. Even Bilbo had fared better than the dam, though he had been so overcome with tears he could not speak. Donia however, had yet to cry. She only stood and stared. It was a sort of grief worse than death.

Donia did not know if Gandalf had left her for certain, she only knew that he no longer stood before her. She felt an odd stirring within but pushed it back. If she cried, she would only surrender to fate. This could not be the end. They had waited so long, come so far,  _and for what?_  For death.

Durin’s line had been slain and thus the Mountain was as dead as its princes. There was no blood left to rebirth Erebor and yet was the old father Durin not reborn anon? Had his lineage strayed so far that they could be obliterated at the edge of an orc’s blade? Why could not Thorin open his eyes and look at her? Why could he not listen so that she could say she loved him? Why could he not rise and sit the throne to welcome his people home?

Were they all just legends? Had the Mountain only been a fool’s dream built on fantasy? Durin’s blood was little different than that of any other dwarf. Durin’s sons could be cut down and lost to the pages of time. Dwarves were not created of stone, but of flesh and blood. They were not some blessed race, they were cursed.

“Mahal be damned,” Donia muttered though she did not realize she had spoken aloud, “He has not the power to raise those who serve him so ardently but leads them to perish.”

The dam hung her head and exhaled slowly, her anger building as she censured her own creator.  _How was it that Mahal could grow a forest and spring a river, but he could not save a king?_ Oh, but he is not a necromancer, he is but the creator. _Why believe in a maker whose creation must always meet with destruction?_

Donia stood straight, her head snapping up as she fought her blasphemous thoughts. Her hand shook as she clung to the king and looked down at him, taking the measure of him as if she were seeing him for the first time. She swallowed and glanced around the great hall, making certain she was truly alone.

Reluctantly, she removed her hand from Thorin’s though it felt for a moment, as if he was trying to hold onto her. Slowly, she stepped away from the plinth, not looking away from her beloved’s corpse as she retreated. She would not leave him for long. Dawn was nearing and she had little time left with him.

* * *

Dragging Thorin down the steep path was no easy task but shrouding him had been downright morbid. Donia had trembled as she had shifted the king’s stiffened corpse off the funeral bed and onto the thick canvas. She had secured him tightly in the cocoon and with heavy breath, lugged his form through the eerie corridors.

The chill of night was ebbing away as she progressed down the decline, the battlefield still littered with dented and bloodied armor. Stepping onto the ragged plain, Donia’s foot caught in a hole and she nearly twisted her ankle as the king’s weight fell upon her. She climbed back to her feet with a grunt, looking back at the mountain. She would have to be gone before the rest woke or she would not make it far.

Amid the wreckage of warfare, Donia found a cart, the wheels no longer attached. It would be burdensome and at times, agonizing, but the amputated vehicle would have to serve as a sledge. She angled Thorin’s corpse onto the wood and secured him alongside her meagre pack. It was little, but it would get her far enough that she could gather whatever else she needed.

Next, she secured the rickety plank to her waist and took the other ropes over her shoulder, holding them in her hands as she took her first steps forward. She was nearly toppled as she tried to drag the heavy sled but once it began to move, she caught her pace and steadily advanced. The realization of what she was doing nearly halted her, but there was no turning back. It was her last hope.

The sun rose slowly as if conspiring with the dam. The pink haze slowly brightened to orange until the orb reach its peak and the sky shone a blinding blue. Donia expected she would be pursued and knew she could not outrun the other dwarves as they searched out the sacred body of their monarch.

A series of caves outlined the forest on the outskirts of Erebor, many so old they had collapsed within. Rounding the line of stony mouths, Donia chose the furthest which remained passable and cautiously made her way inside. As the light dwindled and she turned down the first offshoot and removed the king from his sledge. She buried the wooden carcass under some rocks and continued with the king and her pack strapped to her back.

Donia was as good as crawling through the dark, the king heavier as rigor mortis set in. She could not go on, she was exhausted from her vigil and the harried flight from the Mountain. Her companions would be upon her soon and as quickly become her enemies. Feeling her way through the black, she found a small alcove along a winding corridor and painstakingly made her way inside.

She untied Thorin from her back, laying him down as gently as she could, letting her pack fall carelessly beside him. There was just enough room for the two bodies. She reclined beside him, pulling her pack atop her against the cool air flowing through the caverns. If she were fortunate, the dwarves would lose her trail. If not, she hoped at least her cove would not be discovered easily.

* * *

Donia woke to the sound of distance clinks. Swords on belts, axes in hands, boots on stone. Her pursuers were close enough to be heard but had chosen the wrong tunnel. If she were lucky, they would think she had not descended into the caves and leave upon another whim. She held her breath as if they would hear even the faintest shift and waited for the noise to retreat.

She fell asleep once more as she waited, waking to an eerie silence. The company had passed her by but had left her to worse. The quiet closed in on her and she couldn’t breath for the feeling that the walls were falling in on her. She grew frantic, her chest a drum, and wriggled gracelessly from her alcove, sprawling across the cave floor.

She caught her breath as she sat up, slowly rising on her shaky legs. She pulled her pack from within the hiding hole before retrieving her only companion with a series of strained grunts. She knelt beside Thorin as she looked down the tunnel with a sigh, leaning back on her heels. She touched his head, wishing he would raise it and tear his way free of his shroud.

“Well, we’ve still far to go, my king,” She said in a low voice as she began to secure the ropes once more, “We’ll find our sledge and be on our way. I hope this road is not so long as the last was.”

She was talking to a dead man. And as if he would answer back. She was already growing mad. Shaking off her moment of insanity, she lifted Thorin with all her might, his weight on her pack as heavy as the stone in her chest. She inched forward, one foot in front of the other, feeling along the wall as she listened for any sign of observance.

Dwarves were not stupid and she could not be sure they did not leave scouts.

* * *

 _Where the light meets the dark,_  
So life meets death.  
Beneath the stone, between the river,  
Hides the trickster necromancer.

It was a child’s tale, but Donia kept retelling it in her head. After she was certain she had eluded the king’s loyal subjects, the realization had dawned that she did not truly have a destination. She only knew who she was looking, or rather what. The necromancer, a figure of legends, may only be a dream but it was her only hope.

She climbed between the crags, higher and higher, walking backwards as she dragged Thorin’s corpse along on its wearing sledge. Her morbid escort had become her only comfort and at times she caught herself talking to him, almost as if he would respond. That if she spoke to him, it could bring him back and she’d have no need of the magicker.

It was times like these, when the rain began to fall and her legs trembled. When she thought she could not go on that she made herself speak.

“It won’t be long,” She assured her king. She could not say for herself, how long she had been travelling; days or weeks. Light and dark had melted together and all she saw was the next step and the next after that, “My king, we will not be long at all.”

Donia worried that beneath his shroud he was rotting and she would one day drag a skeleton, forced to accept that he was gone. But he could not be. So much would die with him. His mountain, his people…. _her._

Her cloak was soaked through, her hair heavy beneath her hood, and her bones ached from the cold. She huffed as she came to halt, letting the sledge slide against her legs as she looked around herself. Here in the stony bluffs where few traveled howled the beasts which kept them away. A sharp cry echoed along the shale walls.

 _Not far,_  the mouth of a single cave beckoned to her. She had not glanced it when first she set around the corner and along the decline. It was as if it had only just appeared but she could not what lay within. The doorway was pitch black, as if it were painted with pitch. It would seem depthless and yet endless all in one.

Another wolf’s call came, this one louder, closer. It sent a shiver up Donia’s spine and she pulled taut the ropes of the king’s sledge. The air amidst the crags was sharp and biting, driving her quicker to the cave’s entrance. Even as she was slowed by Thorin’s weight, she couldn’t help but harry her approach.

The dark within was alluring; enchanting, almost. As she drew nearer, she swore she could hear the wind whisper as it swirled across the cavern’s mouth. She shuddered as she peered inside,  _ **wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.**_  Though she could not see what lingered beneath the blanket of shadows, it called to her, luring her onward.

Her first step was hesitant; fearful, but as her toe crossed the threshold of darkness, she was filled with determination and some unknown temptation. She was coaxed deeper as the abyss welcomed her in.


End file.
